


The Peregrine and the Kestrel

by Jubalii



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series, Layton Kyouju vs Gyakuten Saiban | Professor Layton vs. Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney, 逆転裁判 | Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: A Sorrier Excuse for Eve to be in her Teacher Outfit 24/7, A Sorry Excuse for Barnham to Ride a Motorbike, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, F/M, Gangsters, It's Campy as Hell, Lots of Bird Reference for No Reason, Mercenaries, Not Canon Compliant, Obvious Metaphors, One of the only AUs I'll do for This Series, Passion Project?, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, Sorry Not Sorry, Ties to the Main Story, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2018-12-11 08:14:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11710422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jubalii/pseuds/Jubalii
Summary: After a meltdown at Labrelum caused a near-global catastrophe, its CEO went into hiding and left his business partner, Newton, to die. Now his estranged daughter is out for revenge, but to traverse the dangerous road to the supposedly Utopian island of "Labyrinthia", law intern Eve Belduke needs protection. Rumor has it that the leader of The Knights, one of the fiercest gangs to roam London's deserted streets, is up for hire. Age unknown, past unknown, alias include "The Inquisitor" and "Z". He'll take you anywhere you need to go, honor any bargain, or kill anyone in your way... for a price.





	1. Prologue

            **Author’s Note:** (shrug) Yeah, yeah. I know.

 

* * *

 

            This was a PR nightmare. No… it was worse.

            _I must keep her safe. My little girl…._

            “Arthur, where are you going.” It wasn’t quite a question. The sallow-faced head scientist knew exactly where he was going.

            “Espella is at home. I _must_ get her to safety, before it’s too late.” Newton Belduke shook his head.

            “It _is_ too late, Arthur. The miasma has spread. My data analyzers tell me the computers are projecting 43% coverage of England by 0800 tomorrow.”  

            “No!” The man spun to face the door, slamming a hand on his desk. “The island is far from the mainland. She’ll be fine. The air will… will….” He broke into muttering, running a hand through his silver hair. “Espella… Dad’s coming.”

            “Arthur, stop and listen to m—” His plea became a grunt as he was shoved aside, nearly losing his footing on the posh carpeting of the CEO’s suite. By the time he scrambled to his feet, lab coat fluttering around his knees, the glass door was swinging. “Arthur! No!” He ran to the hall, looking up and down the empty corridor before running towards the lift as fast as his shoes could carry him on the slippery tiles.

            The lift chimed as it began to descend; he didn’t bother trying to catch it, instead running past the metal doors and choosing the stairwell instead. He took the doors two at a time, but when he reached the foyer he was alone. The lift was closing again, showing a lavish, but empty interior. The receptionist’s desk was abandoned, the phones ringing off their hooks.

            He stood for a moment, panting heavily and watching people, innocent bystanders, running for their lives outside the plate-glass windows. Some carried possessions; others ran with only the clothes on their backs. The windows and the heavy doors kept out the sound, but he could hear their screaming in his mind. Some of the most susceptible were already showing the first signs of illness: the red blisters on otherwise pale, ashen skin, the lagging speed, the bulging eyes as they began to cough and choke….

            _My god… what have I done?_

            “Mr. Belduke, sir!” He turned, slowly, unable to tear his eyes away from the macabre scene unfolding on the streets as the panic began to shift from madhouse into pure chaos. His intern leapt from the lift, reams of dot-matrix paper spilling from her arms. The tail end of her report caught in the lift doors as they closed and she jerked back, nearly sprawling on the marble before catching herself and yanking it free with a loud tear. She scurried up to him, feeding him the paper the way she fed it into the computers every day.

            “Sir, look!” she gasped, goggles shoved sideways on her forehead to keep the teal bangs out of her eyes. “The miasma is being affected by the dry air and is spreading faster than we could have imagined!”

            “Jean…”

            “Unless it rains—no, _until_ it rains, we’re looking at biohazards on a countrywide scale! We have to contact someone!”

            “ _Jean_ —”

“Please, go get Mr. Cantabella and tell him to phone Parliament; we have to get governmental aid underway or else we’re looking at nearly 1/5 of London’s population succumbing within a fortnight! This is a calamity on scale with the Black Death!”

            “Jean!” The girl stopped short, catching her breath in one quick inhale. In the five months she’d been interning under Newton, he’d never once raised his voice to her. “Mr. Cantabella is gone.” Her mouth worked wordlessly, shoulders heaving as she looked from his face to the door, to the lift and back again.

            “G-gone?” she licked her lips, fingers rising to her chin. “Gone where?”

            “His daughter is very ill. He’s moving her somewhere safe.” He saw the confusion in her eyes. “He may be back soon.” A lie. Arthur Cantabella was not coming back. He had abandoned his own company. As head scientist… it was his burden now. “In the meantime, I’ll make the calls. Go home, Jean.”

            “But—” He cut her off with a hand on her head. She was tiny for her age, and very young to be an intern at that. He felt, sometimes, like she was more of a daughter to him than a future potential colleague.

            “Get your family and leave while you still can. They’ll be closing off the borders soon. At least make it into the countryside. Leave the city.”

            “But what will you do?”

            “I’ll stay here and manage as best I can.” He felt the first stirrings of tickling in his throat. The miasma was leaking in from under the door, perhaps? Or was it filtering up through the ducts from the compromised laboratory?

            “I’ll help you, then.” Her eyes sparkled with determination. It was a face he’d seen directed at him many times before; he knew how obstinate she could be. “Together, we can start work on a cure before—”

            “No.” He ruffled her hair before gently tugging the goggles off her head, placing them around his neck. _You are young. You have a life ahead of you still. You have family that cares about whether or not you live._ “Go, Jean. We’ll meet again someday.”

            “M-Mr. Belduke…?” He pushed her towards the door, as one might do with a stray puppy that attaches itself to a master.  “Mr. Belduke, if you stay here, you’ll breathe the air and… and you’ll… you can’t find a cure all on your own!”

            “I’m not the top scientist in the UK for nothing, you know.” He smiled at her, forcing his lips to mimic the look and feel of a fond farewell. “Good-bye, Ms. Greyearl. It was a pleasure to work with you.” He could see the tears swimming in her eyes, even as she backed towards the door.

            “Do-don’t give up hope, Mr. Belduke.” Her voice, though faint, was just as determined as ever. “I believe in you. You can do it… you can do it!” She bit back a sob, turning and bursting through the door into the outside. In the few seconds between it opening and the automated system shutting it, he could hear the din of human screams, choking off into violent hacking. Even though it was futile, he held his breath until the door locked with a heavy snap.

            Life was self-preserving.

            Clearing his throat, he walked over to the receptionist’s desk. It took him a moment to figure out the proper buttons; he was used to phoning only the lab, instead of the entire building. But he sighed in relief when he heard the trio of beeps play above his head, to his sides, and all throughout the many labyrinthine levels of Labrelum HQ.

            “Everyone, cease your work. We can no longer stand against the inevitable. The chemicals released from Test Center 4 are spreading through the city as we speak. You’ve seen the readouts, and you know the odds. It is imperative that you take what precautionary measures you can before you breathe too much in.” He couldn’t see or hear anyone left in the building, but all the same there was a collective sense of dread, as if every staff member listened with bated breath.

            “We have to flee the building, and London itself. Mr. Cantabella has already left for abroad, and I plan to leave… soon. Go, and may we meet again under more auspicious circumstances.” He hung up with a click that sounded deafening in the raised ceilings of the antechamber.

            The lift was deserted. Apparently, anyone still left was taking a leaf out of his book and using the stairs as a faster way to get down. Or perhaps it was the emergency training that always said never to use the lift in a crisis. Either way, he managed to make it from the ground floor to his top-story office suite without meeting another soul.

            He walked to the window and looked down, seeing the lines of people cramming the sidewalks. Even as he watched, white lab coats and business wear joined the throngs. The few who dared to drive their cars found themselves swamped and ended up abandoning them, carrying what they could as they tried to fight their way amidst the others. They looked like ants, scurrying around only without the hive mind. The ones who fell were trampled, alive or not.

           He sat as his desk, fingers reaching across the cool, safe wood. Jean was right. He would die if he remained. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave. This was ½ his company, and he was just as responsible for whatever it did. Whereas Arthur abandoned ship, he had to take the helm as captain and sail home, even if he were as ill-fated as the soul who tied himself to the wheel in Dracula.

            He reached again for a phone, this time dialing out. He hesitated before punching the number, trying to remember the digits he hadn’t used in years. He tapped the speaker icon, the tinny sound of ringing filling the otherwise silent room. It rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

            _You have reached the number of…_ a human woman’s voice interrupted the robotic soundtrack, speaking slowly and clearly. “Eve Belduke.”… _The voice mailbox is full. If you’d like to leave your message in another mailbox, type the code now, followed by the pound sign._

He hung up. Waited a moment, dialed again. This time, it only rang once before the robotic soundtrack played again. _You have reached the number of…_ He picked up the receiver until he heard the dial tone, and let it hang from his fingers until the sound was too much to bear. He tried once more, just for the hell of it, and again only one ring played before the oh-so-helpful robot tried it’s best to let him leave a message.

“So, you’re still avoiding my calls.” He ran his hands through his hair, mussing the ponytail. What could he do? His only daughter wouldn’t speak to him even on a good day, and he couldn’t leave a message. Her voicemail was probably filled with birthday messages and awkward attempts to apologize from the past five years. He doubted she even listened once she heard his voice on the recording.

He couldn’t warn her, so she might die. Just another thing that he couldn’t prevent. If he hadn’t been so hard on her, if he’d just stopped work and listened when she called, if he hadn’t forced her to be the daughter _he’d_ envisioned, even when she wanted to be a prosecutor… perhaps they’d be fleeing the city together.

He could leave a note, but there was no way that she’d find it. In approximately ten more minutes, Labrelum would enter automatic lockdown mode. The emergency siren still hadn’t been turned off in Test Center 4, seeing as everyone within was lying dead, their skin burned until it melted and fused to the metal floor and grates, their hands stuck to the doorknobs and grinning skulls twisted askew on their necks, eyeballs pooling in the sockets. 

The outer doors would lock; the windows bar themselves, the Test Centers and Laboratories shut their steel doors and wait for the key that would unlock them once more. There were only two special keys, and he had neither one of them. The air filtration system would turn on, keeping out the miasma but leaving him to starve. He wouldn’t be able to access the lift or the stairwell. He would die a slow, painful death all alone on the top floor of the company skyscraper.

_No. I am leaving._

Life was self-preserving, but willpower was its downfall.

He reached into the side drawer, pulling out his key. He looked at the lone decoration in his office, a picture of his late wife and estranged daughter. They were almost identical, especially now that she was a young woman and not the happy little girl that sat so demurely on her mother’s lap.

Eve would survive. She was a good girl, a smart girl. Law study would have honed her judgment, given her new perspectives. She had money of her own, legal settlements from her mother’s posthumous account, inheritance that he’d given to her, but she’d refused to use. She knew how to read people, to see what they were really thinking. There was hardly a person in the world who could take advantage of her. She wasn’t the baby bird in her mother’s loving hold; she had spread her wings and soared far into the sky, farther than he could reach. He could do no more for her now.

He touched the eternal smile of his late wife, feeling even through the growing numbness in his chest the pain of her premature departure. The terrible, terrible accident that had ripped her from his arms. Perhaps, in some way, he’d deserved that too. And it had only furthered the rift between him and his daughter; while he’d wallowed in his misery, she had needed him. But surely his wife had understood. Just as he understood what Eve would feel. He stood from the chair, key clutched in his fist. _Darling… I am coming. Soon._

He pulled the trigger.

           


	2. Chapter 2

            It was a beautiful day for a stroll, if only because it was easier to breathe. The streets were clogged with the forgotten, the left-behind, the too poor to leave and the too sick to try. Everyone shuffled outside even if they had no place to go, no business to attend to; it was enough to leave the squalor inside the few buildings still standing after the Great Fire, to crane one’s neck hopefully for a glimpse of the sun behind the normal—it was frightening how quickly things became normal—overcast lavender.

            The sidewalks were neglected, filled with waste, with cans and paper wrappings, overflowing rubbish bins, dying trees in fetid dirt, and the empty shells of burned buildings surrounding the broken, dented, yet glittering glass husk of Labrelum Inc. The people on them were gaunt, tired, covered head to toe in whatever clothing they could find, their expressions the picture of disassociation. Many had scars, some open wounds, garish burns along the pads of their fingers, the creases of their knees and elbows, skin red and blistered where it was exposed to the open air.

            Out of a squat square building with broken windows, nondescript among the other, equally squat buildings that lined the alley, a woman stepped out. In normal life she might have been beautiful; she was still pretty, her face comely but careworn, her skin mostly free of burn or blemish, and what could be seen of her figure was shapely enough. Her hair was frizzed, roots greasy with lack of access to water, her skin dull with the absence of proper nourishment.

            She wore a grey business suit, shoulders covered in sooty smears and the right sleeve singed to mid-forearm. It was wrinkled and ugly, but it was all she had. Like most of the population, the rest of her wardrobe was lost along with her home and all her belongings in the Great Fire. In the gap between her right sleeve and the pale kid gloves, a burn scar could be seen winding its way up her forearm, an eternal kiss from the same fire.

            As she stepped into the street, she pulled a piece of butcher’s twine from her pocket and pulled her hair off her neck, adjusting the collar of her shirt to cover her from the nape down. She fell into a rhythm with a small group passing by; they offered neither a glance nor word of welcome, and she ignored them just as easily. She kept her head high, her eyes on the path in front of her as she broke from the main crowd and headed towards the city’s more dangerous center. It was easier to deter brigands and pickpockets if she looked as if she had somewhere to go, someone waiting for her.

            When one didn’t go out much, it was hard to remember that London still had so many people living in it. The Great Fire, started merely hours after the first warning of the live virulent in the air, had claimed approximately two-thirds of the buildings in the city. With emergency personnel helping to set up the WHO quarantines, the fire had spread out of control, hopping buildings and even lighting the Thames thanks to a barge oil spill. Even now, nearly a year later, no one knew the true monetary damage or loss of life those flames had caused. Then again, it really didn’t matter.

            London had been shoved into the third of the city left nearly unscathed, quivering as the virulent infected them. The quarantine was meant to stop any unnecessary spreading of the disease, but a few rich had managed to bribe their way to safety in America and France. The rest were left to fend for themselves.

No one knew exactly what had been released: the president of the corporation had vanished into thin air, and the head scientist was confirmed dead by helicopter footage, shot to death by his own hand. All the other countries had been too afraid of the virulent to help; it ate away at the toughest WHO sterile suit, filtered through gas masks, crept into the tightest seals. Rumors abounded that it was a biological warfare weapon designed by the government, that it was a hybrid monstrosity of chemical and biological origin, that it was a purely synthetic, sentient pathogen, the first of its kind.

It was a top military secret, and any documentation on it was lost in the explosion that claimed the tight-security Labrelum headquarters and started the Great Fire. The English government collapsed as Parliament either grew sick and died in their homes, or spent every last cent to flee the country. All the while, the virulent made its way into the atmosphere, the first lilac clouds popping up and settling over the city proper.

Rain was said to be the cure, but with the heavy cloud cover no real weather pattern could emerge. The clouds beat back the fresher air, choking the city with poisonous smog. Doctors died faster than they could research a cure for their patients. Scientists were baffled, unable to get a clear sample. Every time they thought they had it beat, the virulent managed to mutate, to react differently with its surroundings, to become even more deadly. Bodies stacked up faster than they could be buried, their lungs red and blistered, choking and dropping where they stood, feverish one morning and dead by night.

Saltwater reacted with the clouds to form deadly acidic waves, eating at the hulls of ships. Every tide brought in miles of fish, dead and eaten to the bone in places, vacant holes where their eyes should be. The smog crept like a living entity among the Thames, entering even the most carefully boarded home and filling the lungs of every human, animal, bird. Even plants weren’t immune, drooping and dying in mere hours.

There was no cure: you either died or you didn’t. Bodies were stacked as best they could to be buried or burned, the stackers often joining the fray within days. Their decomposing corpses, aided by the acid dew that fell each morning, brought on new dangers: cholera, gastroenteritis, and the risk of slipping in someone’s remains when traversing the streets. Most people died, but some seemed naturally immune, their lungs resisting the virulent, and their minds strong enough to overcome the horrors that surrounded them.

The young woman in the suit, one Ms. Eve Belduke, was one such person, fortunate—or unfortunate—enough to have been passed over by the Angel of Death when it spread suffering with a merciless sword. She, like the remaining citizens of London, slept when it was safe, ate what she found, and lived an endless day-to-day cycle.

Most were people like her, somehow immune to the disease, dressed in what they’d worn that day to work or school, tired and bitter, given up on trying to find passage out of the country. They were just living as best they could from day to day, some small spark still burning brightly enough to keep them alive just a few more hours.

She lived in the square building—a duplex—with about twenty or so other such people of various ages, none of whose names she knew. She recognized their haggard faces, sometimes going without seeing one so long that she chalked them up to being dead before they were found sleeping in the room next to her months later. They never spoke to one another; there was no point. Survival was the main goal of the day, not friendship. She even hated them at times, for encroaching on what she sometimes considered to be _her_ space. She knew that they felt the same way.

 It didn’t matter, anyway. You lived where you could, now. It was impossible to survive on the streets. Even if you were immune, antibodies did nothing against the burns. The dew that fell each night was more acid than water. It burned if you brushed up against it and would strip skin to the bone if left unchecked for long periods of time. Not to mention the smog, which was impossible to outrun. Entire areas of London were inhabitable at a time, the lingering fog beautiful in its purplish swirls but able to reduce a dog to bones in little over an hour. Climatologists were baffled at how acid rain could be so concentrated, or even exist in a fog-like form, but no one cared about what the climatologists thought unless it meant they didn’t have to worry about the smog anymore.

Most people, when they did go out, did well to cover themselves as much as they could. Even brushing up against a wet building could eat away at clothing or cause an unhealthy burn on the skin, which could easily turn gangrenous if not dealt with promptly. There were entire boroughs of people, living skeletons with acid burns covering most of their body from scrubbing against corners and leaning against buildings or benches. When one passed, the smell of rotting flesh was a pungent perfume, their blank eyes and gaping mouths a testament to how far their minds had gone. They were the ones who had given up, who walked the streets without knowing what they were doing, waiting for death.

Eve was no exception to the rule. Despite the ever-present muggy heat from the clouds, she wore her long sleeved, mismatched suit jacket, her pale blouse buttoned to the collar and matching gloves safely covering her fingers. They already had holes in the palms from handling acid-covered items, but that couldn’t be helped. Her skirt was short, but she had been lucky enough to find a new pair of dark hose that were thick enough to protect her skin, as long as they didn’t run. And her shoes, though not fashionable, had held up remarkably well on the wet sidewalks.

“Oi, Miss: spare a penny for me mum?” A scruffy urchin stepped in front of her as she rounded the corner, large eyes sunken in his bony face. She stared a moment, watching him carefully. Most brats—the unofficial term for the thousands of orphan children teeming in the alleys—were on their own, beady eyes open for unaware citizens to steal from. Even simple things like tissues or pens fetched a high price in the alleys, given in exchange for a coveted crust of moldy bread.

Even as she watched, the youth’s eyes darted to her lapel, where her Law Intern badge gleamed faintly on the wrinkled cloth. She had worked hard to pass the preliminary benchmarks and become a proper Intern before the Great Fire. Even though it meant nothing, and she could probably barter the silver for some extra food, it was still a precious item to her. It was a personal testament to what perseverance could bring.

“Stand aside.” She brushed past the brat—probably an orphan, no matter what he’d said—and continued on her way. She was harder than she meant to be, and he squalled when he stumbled, bare shoulder scratching against the acidic sweat of a brick building.

“Oi! Ya bleedin’ bitch!” For a child, the kid already had a mouth on him. “Ye know where yer goin’, don’cha? I hope they bleed ya dry!” She clenched her jaw, trying not to flinch.

The brat was right: she was heading straight into gang territory, and for no real good reason. She wasn’t even sure if she could find the person she was looking for.

After the Great Fire, gangs sprouted like weeds. They took the best buildings, the best food, and staked their territory in the winding streets of London’s innermost parts. They were the ones that had the weapons, the manpower, and the cutthroat personalities that didn’t care a whit about innocents being caught in the crossfire.

As she walked down No Man’s Land, the strip of buildings that separated the ‘main’ from the gang neighborhoods, the air grew heavy. At first she faltered, looking around for a cause, before realizing that it was just the silence. Compared to the shuffling gait of the crowds, the hacking of the sick and the grunts of anyone burned by the acid, it was quiet enough to hear her heart in her ears. She had already come to associate this silence with the smog, when everyone cleared out of the area to save their own hides. But this was a different silence, almost peaceful in an unsettling sort of way.

She continued down No Man’s Land, past the old grocery shoppes and the theatre, past the rusted gates of the university, all the way to the end where the factories stood silent. There, standing before the sign that announced the industrial park, she saw what she was looking for. Green and gold paint, striped up the sides and over the letters of the sign all the way to the top, where a stylized black owl was painted in thick, heavy strokes.

 _The Knights_.

She gulped, the sound muted. The Knights were the most exclusive gang, with enough manpower to control the industrial area and use it as a racetrack for their motorbikes. They were considered the toughest of the tough, and yet they stayed to themselves, retaliating without mercy only when thoughtlessly provoked. She’d heard stories about them, enough stories to be assured that they could be persuaded to do… certain tasks.

She walked boldly past the sign, sparing it only one more cursory glance before starting down the long incline towards the nearest factories. Her ears were on high alert for the first rumbling motor, but everything was still strangely quiet. She wondered where everyone was. It was very unnerving, her heart pattering against her ribs. She felt a panicky sort of emotion, the kind reserved to mice that know a cat is coming, but unsure as to when it will pounce.

She reached the first two factories and decided to cut between them, content on skirting the outer edge of Knight territory before heading further in. At least then she could feasibly escape if they came at her all at once, or refused to tell her what she needed to know. She was halfway down the alley when the voice, close behind her, spoke up.

“What are _you_ doing?” It was a droll tone, both commanding and tired. She fought the urge to spin on her heel, to face her ‘attacker’ head on, and instead paused leisurely before turning with a blank, cool frown. The man standing behind her was half a head taller than she, with an angular nose and broad chin. His brown eyes were shrewd as he looked her over, lingering a moment on the Intern pin. He wore the uniform of the knights, purple undershirt and black leather, owl stitched onto a band around his forearm. His helmet was a plumed bird, strands of feathery brown hair fluttering from beneath the beak that made part of the visor.

“Are you one of the Knights?” The moment the words left her lips, she realized how stupid they sounded. Of course he was a Knight. He arched one brow imperiously, looking down at his clothes before touching his helmet, almost as if to make sure it was still there.

“Aye,” he said, the word not without some measure of jeering humor at her expense. She fought the blush threatening to spread over her cheeks. “But you’re not, which leads us full circle. What are you doing?” She could tell from his tone alone that he wasn’t the raping sort, and was more curious than offended at her presence in Knight territory. She wondered, albeit briefly, if they followed some sort of chivalric code in the manner of Ye Olde Knights. 

“I’m looking for the Falcon.” She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry as she drew herself up to full height. “I’ve heard that he’s for hire.” The man tilted his head forward slightly, brow drawing over his blunt nose as he took in her words. She could see the confusion brewing in his gaze. “I need him to help me get revenge on someone. I’m willing to pay well for it.” The owl-man ran his tongue over his teeth as he considered her another moment before speaking.

“You can’t find the Falcon,” he said with a dismissive shrug of the shoulders. She felt a stab of disappointment, the fleeting pain of crushed hopes. _He’s already dead, he never existed, he’s not able to help me even if he’s alive, he—_ “He finds _you_.”

“W-what?” She was taken aback, shaken out of her false bravado by the statement. She cleared her throat, trying to get her stoic persona back before he noticed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“He finds you,” he repeated simply. “If he’s interested, that is. What’s your name?”

“Eve—” Her lips formed the ‘Be’ in Belduke, but she stopped herself. Belduke was the traitor, the man who took his own life rather than face the music and help the people of London. The man she’d ignored, pushed away. She didn’t deserve to be a Belduke, but she sure as hell wasn’t about to make the mistake of telling this gangster that she was that same man’s only daughter. She thought quickly, fingers rising to rub over the smooth Intern pin. “D-Darklaw. My name is Darklaw.”

“Dark…law.” If the owl-man thought anything of the name, he didn’t remark on it. Instead, he rubbed at his nose thoughtfully. “You work anywhere, Lady Darklaw.” It was a question, but it fell so flat at the end it didn’t seem much like one.

“No, but you can reach me at Cornerstone Duplex.” He thought a moment longer.

“Across the street from the black market,” he clarified slowly. “Those brownstone houses.”

“That’s right.” Again she was regarded, a frown stretching across the broad, scraggly chin.

“There’s a high chance he won’t take your case, you know.” He adjusted his helmet. “He doesn’t care much for leg work, that’s why he’s the big boss.”

“I think he’d probably give this… leg work… some consideration,” she stated confidently.

“Hmm? Why?” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Who’re you going after, anyway?” The corner of her mouth turned up in a sneer.

“The president of Labrelum.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afterword: 
> 
> Don’t sue me, I don’t know London streets. This is fake Layton London, with the other London underneath and all that good stuff.


	3. Chapter 3

The black market had once been one of London's most fashionable arcades. That was, of course, before the Great Fire swept through like a living entity, bent on destruction. Gutted by roaring flame, the once-pristine shop fronts were twisted and corrupted, a shadow of what used to be. It became an open market of sorts, a bastardized system of trading and underhanded dealings.

Eve didn't like the market. It was a Russian roulette just to branch off the main road and walk beneath the ruined sign that now read A_C_E—prompting any trip there to be referred to as 'going ace'. While the mostly intact ceiling could keep any sudden rain off one's head, the enclosed space was still highly dangerous. If the winds were to shift, bringing the fog through, there would be no escape. If one was lucky, they'd be trampled to death before breathing the first lungful of poisoned air.

Natural elements weren't the only risk to be had. Sure, there were things to be found in the black market that were unavailable at the 'real shoppes': that is, the open air markets that cropped up here and there selling things  _legally_ gotten. But for every normal Joe and Jen creeping along the arcade in search of a pair of gloves without holes or a bit of petrol for a generator, there were twice as many unsavory characters hiding their faces in the shadows of the scorched, sooty pillars that held up what was left of the crumbling roof.

There were no stands here to be found. At least in the real shoppes, most of them still had tables to place their wares on, to keep them off the acidic sidewalk. Here there were a few cardboard boxes, sometimes even a wooden crate or two; most people spread a blanket or tarp, looming over their wares with the watchful eyes of a vulture as they both harked wares and protected them from any potential shoplifters. Some even just carried their wares onthem, in their clothes, on their hands, their shoulders, and their heads. Even more  _were_ their wares, desperate buyers paying either real money or food for ten hasty minutes in a nearby blackened shell of a building.

Industry thrives when needs are met.

Everyone is squashed together like the proverbial can of sardines, barely able to move in the centermost part of the arcade and bottlenecking at the ends. For a black market, it's nonetheless crowded. To shop is here is to keep one's head down, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched and vigilance constant. Nothing stops thieves from pilfering back pockets or even unwatched shops, save for the occasional gunshot or the metal glint of a blade hitting home in the back of an unlucky hand. No one interferes, either; if a man is suddenly surrounded by others, if a woman is jerked from the main street into an alley with a hand over her mouth, no one sees and no one looks. It's better to move quickly, to hope that no sounds make it past the echoing shuffle of feet and murmuring roar of voices bargaining prices and bartering what they have for a mouthful of admittedly stale bread.

Yes, the atmosphere of the market was highly unsavory, but then again, she didn't have much of a choice. She'd been awoken early, before dawn, with a leather-clad hand over her mouth, acid residue stinging her lips. Her eyes had flown open, but she hadn't been able to make out more than a brown chin and thin, veiny neck.

"10 am, the black market. He'll find you." The hand was off her mouth, lips parting involuntarily to breathe in the stale, thick air. The figure stood, a flash of purple undershirt and black jacket, and then vanished into the shadows without a sound. She had sat up, staring in vain after him in the dark, trying to make sense of the words. As she fully awoke, rubbing her eyes in the pale pre-dawn murkiness, it clicked together to make sense.

 _He'll find you_. That was the one repeated character trait of this Falcon, who clearly liked doing things on his own time. It had been nearly two weeks since she'd braved the industrial park and she'd been starting to lose hope that, even with the high profile recipient, the gang leader wouldn't be interested in her revenge plot.

So here she was at a quarter to 10, weaving as best she could through the crowd dressed for midwinter even though the real temperature had to be hitting 29 C°. Her senses were on high alert; everyone was a potential enemy, and even then her mind was focused on picking out every hint of purple, green, or black in an effort to pinpoint who the leader was. She had never seen him; as far as she knew, no one had aside from other gang leaders. He was a mystery man, and despite everything, all the danger involved, she was helplessly curious.

In her mind's eye, he was at least 6'8", if not 7 feet fully. Burly, veiny, with at least ten tattoos stretching across his giant muscles alone. One bicep was a wide as her head, and his jacket was ripped at the shoulders, unafraid of the acid. He was square jawed with thick lips hidden beneath a full mustache-beard, black as night. His eyes were small and squinty, as black as the facial hair. His face was scarred, and his hair? She flip-flopped between him having a long ponytail full of thick black curls, or being entirely bald by choice. That was a dangerous, cold, calculating leader that would easily fit into her plans.

She paused at a stand selling clothes, taking a moment to pull her own ponytail out from under the dirty, itchy fabric of her faded blouse. She needed a new shirt, at least, or something to swap out with so that she could wash her pink button-up. A plain white shirt, the kind once worn for exercise gear, was draped neatly over an empty crate of oranges. She stepped closer to inspect, all the while keeping a hand over her lawyer's pin and staying aware of every brush against her back from the crowd. It was a man's shirt, two sizes too big, but in this day and age that couldn't be helped.

"Excuse me," she called softly. The shopkeeper was a tall, square man with beady eyes and a long nose. He stared down said nose at her before standing up, plopping a ridiculous plumed hat on his head and picking up a walking cane. She saw his foot, bent at an odd angle and weeping with an open sore. She looked back at the shirt, forcing the image from her mind. Learning to see without seeing was one of the few things she hadn't been properly able to grasp.

"Fine cloth, madam." The man bent over her, filling her nose with the scent of stale sweat and gangrene. "No holes. Barely used, just some sweat stains."

"How much?" The man looked her over once, twice, his little eyes narrowing further as he estimated her worth without a word. Finally he stood to full height, barely leaning on the cane, the feather flopping close to brush his forehead.

"What can you offer?" She looked again at the shirt. She knew exactly what to offer, but was it worth it? She reached into her pocket, fingering a short length of athletic medical tape she'd traded a piece of cheese for. She'd been keeping it close on hand, in case of an emergency—to walk the streets with an open wound was to invite Death. He would take it, no issue, but was one shirt worth the value of such a rare commodity as medical tape? Was she a fool to ask for so little? She licked her lips slowly, thinking hard.

Finally she pulled the tape out of her pocket, concealed in her closed fist. Shuffling closer to the crate, she loosened her fingers to show him the offer. As expected, his eyes lit with a greedy gleam, mouth stretching into a rotten smile. Just before he could snatch the tape, her fist reformed and she yanked her elbow back.

"Throw in those," she ordered, nodding at a pair of elbow length evening gloves clearly stolen from one of the expensive shoppes in the arcade. She couldn't see any holes in them, and the length would protect her arms when she wore her gray jacket. The white shirt had long sleeves as well, which meant she could even forgo the jacket on days when she was sure it wouldn't rain. The pair of gloves and the white shirt would be a worthy exchange for her expensive medical tape.  _If only he had a pair of stockings as well_ …. but that couldn't be helped. She had to take what she could get.

"Hmph…" the man hemmed, clicking his tongue as he stared at the gloves. "Listen, ma'am: Price does a fair deal, but you're asking for too much." She stared steadily at him a moment before shrugging, pocketing her tape back. "W-w-wait a minute, now!"

"Either take the deal or don't. I might find someone else willing to take a reasonable offer." She used her lawyer voice, the one that made everyone shrink just a little. This shady shop keep was no exception, his short neck scrunching back into his shoulders as he wilted before nodding, taking the gloves and tossing them onto the shirt before holding out his hand expectantly.

She placed the tape in his palm, taking care not to brush any of her skin against his, and then rolled immediately traded her hole-filled pink gloves for the black ones. They fit well, despite being a little stiff, and she flexed her fingers in appreciation before shoving the pink ones into her jacket pocket. The shirt she folded, thin fabric shifting silkily against itself and she rolled it over and over before having a parcel small enough to hold onto with a tight grip. She didn't know when she could leave the arcade, and it was better to hold her valuable purchase rather than put it in her pocket. At least any thief would only get a pair of ratty gloves if they tried to steal from her unawares.

She rejoined the crowd with a practiced step, part graceful merge and part forceful shove. They parted reluctantly for her, the slower ones being pushed to the outer edges while the faster, more able ones kept up a steady center line flowing as swiftly as a river. The best walking ground was between the two, a middle strip of people moving slower in order to look at the items for sale while still keeping a decent pace.

The opposite entrance to the arcade was now clearly in her sights, and as she walked along, pretending to be interested in the shops while keeping an eye on her pocket, she wondered what she should do when she reached the end. Turning around would be a suspicious move, but she had to stay in the arcade if she expected him to find her. It had to have been after 10:00 by now; should she peruse another store? She didn't have much else to bargain with, other than her new shirt.

Before she could make up her mind, she felt something on her back. No, that was inaccurate—she always felt something on her back, because they were packed tightly enough in this arcade that she couldn't stop from bumping against the person in front of her, nor could the person behind stop from bumping into her. But that was accidental touches, something unavoidable and slightly awkward as they all ignored being directly everyone else's personal space. This was deliberate, the feeling of a palm pressed into the small of her back; she could feel fingers, all five of them, pushing her ahead with a chaste nonchalance, despite being centimeters from the rise of her skirt.

"Walk," came the order when she involuntarily paused, surprised by the touch. How long had it been since she had been touched on  _purpose_ , with someone taking the incentive to put their hands on her body without it being incidental? She obeyed the command, more from shock than anything else, as the hand pushed her in the direction of the exit. She barely tilted her head, trying to see what her—assaulter? He wasn't  _assaulting_ her, not really, but what other word could there be?—was wearing.

"Eyes forward." Another direct order, spoken in a rich, warm voice with a hint of cynical amusement. Someone used to giving orders. She wondered, guessed—was this really the enigmatic Falcon? That voice didn't line up with her mental image of him, or what he'd sound like. She had no way of knowing; this could have been just some man deciding that she would be his victim of the day, seeing her white shirt and the bulge of her gloves in her pocket, or the shapely appeal of her body. Despite these harrowing thoughts, she was surprisingly unafraid. Perhaps she was just numb by now, considering that this happened every day in London and her number should have been up long ago, with her usual luck.

"Left," he said when they emerged from the arcade into the overcast shade of the normal London morning. She barely had time to turn before he was turning her, guiding her with nothing but a press of the fingers. They walked at an almost leisurely speed, like two friends out for a stroll. Then she noticed the passerby; even the most dead-eyed shook themselves awake as they approached, shifting into alleys or even jumping into the street and dodging eternally gridlocked automobiles in an attempt to keep from having to walk directly past them.

 _They're frightened of us._ Even if her companion had been well known in these parts—or well feared—there probably wouldn't have been such an (admittedly subdued) ruckus. Just like the riffraff in the arcade, most would have simply ignored him. Something about him made them nervous, nervous enough to choose to get out of the way rather than be noticed.  _It's got to be him. Even if they don't know who he is, they'd recognize the outfit symbolism._

Her heart gave a quick skip, a jolt of electricity not unlike excitement running through her. She was almost appalled at herself, for not feeling any sort of trepidation being at the mercy of a gang leader. But the excitement wasn't just for the thrill of being caught; she was thinking of her revenge.

She focused on the feel of his hand as they walked, trying to sort out what sort of man this was just by the warmth of the appendage through her clothing. It was a large hand, nearly spanning the breadth of her back but not the gorilla fists of the man she'd envisioned. The fingers were long and slender, and relaxed. He didn't expect any problems from her, most likely.

"Left," he said again, and she was quicker this time, turning on her own before he could guide her. They were in an alley now, the kind that had once held a homeless man and a few stray cats before the Great Fire crowded everyone into one section of the city. Looking up with surprise, she saw the ruined husk of Labrelum towering above them, still majestic even in its ruination. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized where she was, not ten blocks from the upscale apartment where she used to live. He was leading her into the ruined half of the city, where no one else dared to go.

Already she could hear their solitude stretching around them, and her heart picked up the pace as the first tendrils of nervousness began to ensnare it in an icy grip. No one would be around to hear her. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to keep a smooth, even gait. The last thing she needed was this man thinking that he could get any sort of upper hand on her. She took a slow breath through her nose, trying to force her heart to slow.  _I am only as weak as I let myself be_ , she told herself, repeating a mantra her law firm superior had often quoted before a trial.

"Here." The hand left her back and she nearly stumbled, finding herself face to face with a broken, half burned piece of fence separating the alley into two parts. She stared stupidly at it for a moment, trying to decide if she could jump over it if needing to escape. "C'mon then. I 'ent got all day." Now that he was saying more than two words at the time, she caught the superiority in his tone, along with no small measure of sarcasm. It immediately set her on edge; she used to hate dealing with these types, back before the Great Fire. She turned on her heel, ready to stand her ground no matter  _how_ beefed up he was.

Until she caught sight of him.

He was nothing at all like her mental image. For one, she had a hard time thinking that  _he_ was the leader of the Knights, and for a split-second looked around him to make sure that no one better was coming into the alley behind him. He was only a head taller than her, and he wasn't veiny at all. He  _was_ broad-shouldered, but his waist was thin and his arms were only average size. His hair wasn't dark but red, shockingly so, bright against the dull purple-grey of the city streets. His eyes were neither black nor hazel, but a steely, stormy gray that would have seemed pale and strange, if not for the dark hue of his skin. He face did have a scar, cutting across his left eyebrow, but it didn't make him look scary. It only made him look like a man with a scar on his face.

She had been expecting someone older, at least middle-aged, but this man was her age, if not a year or two older. He wore the black jacket of the Knights, but his sleeves were cuffed at the elbow to reveal a dangerous amount of forearm. His black jeans had holes in the right knee and were faded and stringy from acid wear, but were in surprisingly good shape nevertheless. His black and purple checked shirt fell beneath his jacket, which was zipped up over his stomach, the collar left open to flap around a strong, bared neck.

She stared, honestly unsure of what to think of him. He reached up and scratched the pseudo-beard, and she caught sight of a tattoo on the inside of his left arm: a sword with a barn owl for the hilt, the wings spread as if in flight to form the cross-guard. Above the wing's highest point, just beneath his elbow, were the words  _Aut Vincere Aut Mori_.

"The Falcon, I presume." He didn't answer, his strange eyes looking her over slowly, from her plain shoes up to her skirt, over the threadbare blouse to her neutral frown and back down. His lips twitched and then he let out a short, barking laugh.

"So, the little sparrow bent on revenge is nothing but a  _lawyer_." He ran his hand over his mouth, as if to try and hide the clearly demeaning smile that stretched over white, pristine teeth. "When the Captain told me of some fit little thing that clearly slipped into our ends from the streets, I was expecting a brat, not some piff." Her hand flew up to touch the badge on her lapel, feeling her cheeks heat even though there was nothing to be embarrassed about.

"I beg your pardon?" she managed, feeling a strain of anger bubble in her breast. It was a shock from the normal numbness of dreary day to day life, and she reveled in the old familiarity of the emotion.

"Why would I want to help some little birdie who used to run hand in hand with the Jakes?" he sneered, stepping close enough that she had to look up to keep their gazes matched. She resisted the urge to back up, frowning steadily up at him. She was not a woman to be cowed into submission, and he was clearly trying to play up the role of the alpha dog.  _A falcon? As if. He's puffing up his feathers like an angry rooster. What a joke._ She bit her tongue, some semblance of self-preservation keeping her civil, if not quiet.

"If you weren't interested," she finally replied, once she was sure her loose tongue wouldn't get her into trouble, "then you could have just passed the message along and saved us both the hassle."

"I wanted to see the little lady brave enough to walk into the Knight's yard without so much as a knock on the front gates." He stepped around her, a chill crawling up her spine as he circled her a little too close for comfort. She kept perfectly still, adopting a devil-may-care expression that spoke of clear boredom even as her heart pattered against her ribs. He didn't seem to be excessively  _tough_ , but something in the back of her mind had her on her guard, instinct claiming that he wasn't harmless, either.

"Well, you've seen her, and if you're not interested in the job, it would behoove you to let me go so that I can find someone who is." She took a hesitant step forward, and as she expected he cut her off with a single solid, if not graceful, step.

"Not so fast, luv." He jerked a head at the tall skeleton of Labrelum. "What'd the old tosser do to you, that you're ready to come to a  _gang_  for vengeance?" She followed his eyes to the tower, the twisted metal, the broken glass, the blackened shell. On impulse, she leaned back until she could see the empty, collapsed husk that was once the penthouse office suites.

"He killed my father." She paused. "And ruined my career," she added, an afterthought to herself. She hadn't been on best terms with her father, and some small part of her still wondered if his death was the only thing worth getting payback for. She wasn't prepared for the hoot of laughter, close enough to hurt her ear as he let loose with a loud cackle.

" _What_?!" he drawled, chuckling down at her when the first peals had died away. "Don't you know that's what they  _do_? Suits are all the same, doll. They squeeze every cent they can out of you, and then their men kill you off when you 'ent got no more. It's hardly worth crying over."

"You have a very biased opinion, sir—." She trailed off, lips pursed. She couldn't keep calling him falcon, but he hadn't offered a real name yet, either.

"Ya." He scratched his stubble again.  _You need a shave, before you start looking less like a bird and more like a scruffy mongrel._

"Besides, you don't think all this," she gestured to the purple clouds, the slimy brick, the skin-eating puddles on the asphalt, "is enough to warrant revenge?" All it did was send him into another round of earsplitting laughter that echoed up and down the dead alley.

"You think my way of life has changed just because of a few  _biohazards_?" he snorted. "You bloody rich folk are all the same. I've been street-livin' since I was no bigger than one of 'em brats out there begging for change."

"I—well—I—" He cut her off with a wave of the hand.

"Look, only one thing's important to a guy like me. You wanna lay it up front? Let's lay it up front." He leaned down until their noses brushed, effectively caging her in without touching her anywhere else. "Cap says you're paying well. How much are we talking?" She gulped, backing up just enough that she didn't have to feel his breath on her lips.

"Ten." His brows jumped.

"Thousand?"

"Yes." He leaned back to full height, cracking his neck audibly. His eyes narrowed and he studied her face, searching for something.

"You're a liar."

"I am not!" she huffed. "I've got it in the bank, in a special account all to itself. The code's yours as soon as the job is done."

"How am I supposed to get it out?" She shrugged.

"Not my problem. Wait until the ATM's back up, find a way to Scotland or France, I don't care. I'm just giving you the password in exchange for your service." Again she was scrutinized, and then:

"I'm going to need some collateral."

"I don't have any—" She faltered when he pointed silently to her suit. Her fingers covered the pin; she was loath to part with it for anything. It was all she had left of her old life, to remind her of her dreams. "N-no."

"Darklaw," he said suddenly, shifting forward until they were nose to nose again. "That's not a name I heard around any courts, and I've been in a few myself."

"I'm… I was an intern. I hadn't started any trials yet." His eyes stared straight into hers, a calm, knowing smile lifting the corners of his mouth. She met his look defiantly, still holding the pin beneath her hand. "I'm not giving it to you," she stated firmly. He nodded, still the picture of calm. "I'll find some other way to—"

He kissed her.

For a full minute—she could almost hear the seconds ticking away in the back of her mind—she was frozen, unable to think beyond the feeling of chapped lips pressed against her own. His hands were fisted in the lapels of her suit, dragging her up onto her tiptoes, scratchy jaw rubbing against hers. Several thoughts ran through her mind in the course of a few seconds: she was having her first kiss, she ought to have been expecting some low brow trick, this was a man who not ten minutes ago had summed her up as 'bloody rich folk'.

Their lips parted with a soft smack, his breath coming out in a low laugh, and she felt the delayed outrage of being manhandled flow through her like a live current. Forgetting who he was, who  _she_ was, and why they were both there, she let her gut instinct take over; before she could blink, her fist collided with his jaw. It was lucky for her that he'd let go of her collar, since the force of her punch, backed by adrenaline, was enough to knock him off his feet. He fell back, sliding along the damp concrete, and tumbled once before stopping. She stood over him, breathing heavily; she licked her lips to clean them, tasting a light smoky flavor as well as a… sore spot?  _Di-did he_ _ **bite**_ _me?!_

" _Just who do you think you are?!"_ He was climbing to his feet, jaw working as he prodded his cheek with his fingers. He stood up, cracking his neck again, and when his eyes opened she saw a strange light in them. He opened his mouth to rotate his jaw again, the sound of his teeth clicking together as he decided it wasn't broken.

"You  _are_ a feisty one." He laughed, impressed. She glared full force at him, the same glare that sent guards at the penitentiary running to do her bidding, but only got a saucy wink in return. "Besides, I never said anything about you  _giving_ it." The words took a moment to sink in, and then her mouth fell open as she reached for her pin, finding nothing but wrinkled lapel. He opened his fist, a small object glinting in his palm.

"You—you—give that back!" She advanced, hand held out, but he only raised his fist high over her head.

"Here's what happens, little sparrow." He flicked her forehead with his free hand, making her take a step back. "I got a pal of mine what runs a tavern in the countryside. She knows a guy who knows a guy who  _might_ have an ATM connected to a generator. I keep this," he continued, flashing the pin again and ignoring her efforts to grab it, "until I get that code and make sure all the money's in the account. Then you get it back, safe and sound. Yeah?"

"I never agreed to this!" She grunted, trying to get her pin back. "That means something to me!"

"Oh, I'll take  _good_  care of it. I always watch over my collateral, because it may end up my property." He sniffed, flicking her again as if brushing off a bothersome fly. "Now, particulars. I ask my contacts to find the Pres', I go to where he's at, I enact this revenge—"

"I know where he's at," she snapped. "He's in Labyrinthia."

"Laber-who-ha?"

"Labyrinthia. His offshore testing facility, but he's converted it into a home. He's living there while his London home is unsafe."

"Okay, fine. I go to Labyrinthia, I ena—"

"No. You take  _me_ to Labyrinthia, and  _I_ enact the revenge." There was a beat, and then he shook his head.

"Oh, no. You're not hanging with  _me_. I ride alone, 'cept for Constantine." She stopped reaching for the pin, arching a brow imperiously at him.

"That's the deal. I'm paying you to take me to Labyrinthia."

"You're paying me for  _revenge_ , luv. Not guard duty."

"I said I needed someone to  _help me_  get revenge. I never stated particulars."

"I said no."

"Then give me back my pin. The deal's off." His nostrils flared and he took a step back, chest heaving.

"I'm not letting some  _lawyer_ piff on my bike. You're too much of a liability on the road."

"Then the pin, please." She held out her hand once more. "I'll take my business elsewhere." He stared down at the pin in his hand, nose scrunching. "I'd think for 10k, you'd be willing to put up with a liability or two." He blew a breath out of the corner of his mouth, tongue running along his teeth before he offered up a glare that rivaled her own.

"You do as I say,  _when_  I say it. No complaints, no slowing me down. If you don't like something, you can hoof it back to London and let me finish on my own."

"Fine, but no more stealing, no more kissing. You touch me again, and it won't be your jaw I aim for. I expect you to treat me like a business partner, and stop calling me a piff! I am 'Ms. Darklaw' to you."

"Eve."

"Ms. Darklaw."

"E.D." Now he was just making her mad on purpose.  _Is this how it's going to be the entire time? No matter_ , she thought.  _He's not going to scare me away just by being a nuisance._

"Ms.  _Dark. Law._ "

"…Miss Eve." She opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

"Miss Eve."


End file.
